


Fated Waltz

by akitsuko



Series: A Series of Incredible Tropes [1]
Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Blow Jobs, Drinking, First Kiss, First Meetings, First Time, Hand Jobs, Kissing, M/M, Oral Sex, Pre-Canon, Smut, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-05
Updated: 2020-11-05
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:34:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27401287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/akitsuko/pseuds/akitsuko
Summary: Oswald eyes him, wary. It would not be wise to trust him, but the more he speaks, the more Oswald feels drawn to him. This is a man like himself.In a world where you will know your soulmate from the first touch of their skin, Oswald is beginning to lose hope when he meets an intriguing man at a bar.
Relationships: Oswald Cobblepot/Edward Nygma
Series: A Series of Incredible Tropes [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2001790
Comments: 15
Kudos: 97





	Fated Waltz

**Author's Note:**

> Trope #1 - Soulmate AU
> 
> Welcome to the beginning of my NaNoWriMo 2020 project! A series of smutty Nygmobblepot one-shots based on some of my favourite tropes and clichés. If all goes to plan, I should be publishing a new one every few days for this month, but I'm already behind on my word count, so who knows?

Oswald is stewing. There's no better way to put it. 

The bar is loud and reasonably crowded. People keep brushing up against him when they come to order their drinks, and it's only adding to his annoyance. Would it really be so much to ask, to be given a bubble of personal space? He doesn't want to interact with anyone except the bartender, but he's not above spitting out a few choice insults to the next imbecile who nearly bumps him off his stool. 

Fortunately, other than these invasions of his space, he's being left alone to fume in peace. 

He's on his fourth whiskey. The sips no longer burn their way down his throat, signalling that he perhaps ought to slow down a bit, but he's feeling disinclined to be sensible. He's never been particularly good at handling his emotions. 

The truth is, he's pushing thirty years old and he still hasn't found his soul mate. 

The whole thing seemed so delightful and romantic while he was growing up. He'd heard all the stories of people finding those connections. He'd been in awe the first time his mother had shown him her mark, an otherwise unremarkable mark akin to a burn, permanently etched into the skin above her heart. She told him the tale of the time she'd met his father, and his father had taken her hand, and she'd felt the warmth throughout her body as the mark came through. She'd looked him in the eyes, and she'd known from his expression that he was experiencing the same sensation. 

The blooming of the soul mark, she'd told the young and impressionable Oswald, was the greatest fulfillment a person could achieve. The knowledge that, after a first touch of skin, you had found the person best suited in the world to understand you. 

Well, Oswald is an adult now. He's found fulfillment in many other areas of his life. He's manipulating his way to the top of the criminal underworld. He's playing the long game, slowly but surely building an empire, gathering intelligence with the aim of overthrowing all of the current key players. 

It's lonely business, but he can't afford to be too trusting. Trusting the wrong people is what will get him killed, if he's not careful. Besides, the pursuit of power in the dark underbelly of Gotham is very much an individual ambition. He has no intention of sharing. 

Still. 

Still, he hasn't managed to completely eradicate his traitorous heart's yearning for a human connection. 

He crushes it down as best he can, but he's painfully aware that an innate need for emotional understanding is one of his greatest weaknesses. He relies on paranoia to keep him safe, a healthy suspicion of every kindness ever shown to him; otherwise, he would be liable to place his trust in anyone he vaguely liked, and such reckless behaviour would inevitably end with him being stabbed in the back. 

It hasn't stopped him hoping. He hopes that there's someone, out there in the world, who isn't simply waiting for an opportunity to betray and destroy him. Someone who will understand and support him, who will stand by his side without wanting to snatch away his victories. Someone who will touch his skin and bring out the soul mark he so desperately longs for. 

There aren't many people who live for three decades while their skin remains unmarked. Yet here he is, a grudging member of that unfortunate club. 

Vaguely disgusted by his own emotional weakness, he scowls and takes another swig of whisky. It's almost time to order a fifth. 

Today has just been another example of why paranoia is so essential to his survival. Michael, a fellow underling of Fish Mooney (well, former fellow underling), had gone behind Oswald's back in an attempt to undermine and usurp him. He wasn't the first to try it, and Oswald had reacted in the way that came most naturally to him - with violent and unbridled anger. He'd been exceptionally efficient in his dealing with the situation, and thoroughly enjoyed personally seeing to Michael's permanent removal. 

His shirt is black, so the bloodstains are invisible except to the closest of observers. 

Unfortunately, loathe though he is to admit it, finding out about Michael's betrayal had stung. They'd known each other for a little under a year, and Oswald had been under the impression that they at least understood each other. Not soulmates, obviously. That discovery had been made early on in their acquaintance. But friends, perhaps. Two people who moved in the same circles and shared many traits in their personalities. They would never have been an inseparable pair, but their casual bond was comfortable. So, of course, Oswald had made the same mistake he always made, letting his guard down too far, and now he's paying the price for it. 

Will he never learn? 

The scrape of wood against the floor alerts him that someone has occupied the previously empty barstool to his right, and he glances across to assess the man as he settles in. Tall, lean, wearing a boring suit that doesn't fit him properly. He's got to be at least a few years younger than Oswald. His face is boyish, his hideous green tie has been loosened, and he reaches under his glasses to rub his eyes. 

Tired and, more importantly, not a threat. Oswald looks away again, and signals the bartender for a refill. 

His phone buzzes in his pocket as the fresh drink arrives, and he fishes it out. It's his mother calling, and he can't help a fond smile despite his mood. She's the only person in the world who cares about him, and this is how she shows it - through excessive worry and a constant need to know his whereabouts. 

He answers. "Hello, mother."

_ "Oswald? You are not at home yet." _

"Yes. I'm having a few drinks with colleagues. I didn't mean to make you worry."

His mother sighs heavily.  _ "Oh, I am happy to hear that. Every time you do not come home, I am afraid that something bad has happened. It is not safe in the night." _

"I'll be home soon," Oswald promises. "Don't worry about me. Is there anything you need me to pick up?" 

It's a short conversation. His mother needs several more reassurances before she is satisfied with his safety, but eventually lets him go. He hangs up, heaves a sigh, and tosses back another mouthful of whiskey. 

She means well, he knows. And he hates keeping secrets from her, but it's necessary to protect her from the less savoury nature of his work. She doesn't need to know about the dirty business he's involved with. It's not a burden she signed up for. 

"I am not as they say," comes a voice from Oswald's right, "but I am in the way. I am not the answer to the question, but an alternative suggestion. What am I?" 

Oswald swivels his head, bewildered, to take another look at the man sitting beside him. He has his own drink, some kind of cocktail, dangling almost precariously from the fingers of one hand. There's a grin playing at his lips as he watches Oswald, no doubt waiting for an answer to his nonsensical question. 

"Excuse me?" is Oswald's eventual response, thrown by how brazen this man is to have addressed him at all, but apparently the man is oblivious to his unimpressed tone and the unwelcome extension of his conversation. 

"It's a riddle," he replies, and he's far too cheerful about it for Oswald's taste. "Do you know the answer?" 

Oswald sneers, and turns back to his own drink. "No, and I don't care. I don't like riddles."

He's content to end the interaction there, but the foolish man bulldozes on without taking the hint. 

"The answer is 'a lie'. Like the one you just told." 

Now Oswald fixes him with a fierce glare. Who, exactly, does this stranger think he is? Or, more to the point, who does he think he's speaking to? 

"You're not here with colleagues," the man continues. "You're here alone. Drowning your sorrows, by the look of it." 

Oswald promptly decides he has heard enough. He slams his glass down on the bar, eliciting a satisfying flinch from the man, before leaning closer to hiss his next words. "Listen,  _ friend.  _ I did not ask for your input, nor your amateur analysis. Now leave me in peace, before I am forced to consider more painful methods for your removal."

The man holds his hands up, suitably flustered and taken aback by Oswald's outburst. 

"It wasn't my intention to offend you!" he hurriedly clarifies. "I seem to do that a lot. No, I just wanted to say that I'm here alone too, so I can offer an ear, if you wanted to get anything off your chest?" 

Oswald's irritation shifts instantly to suspicion. His eyes narrow as he reminds himself where his knife is located.

"Why would I want to get up close and personal with a stranger?" he murmurs. "If you're a spy, here's some advice: your espionage tactics need significant improvement."

"A spy?" The man seems confused. "You've got the wrong idea, I'm not-" 

"A man betrayed me today," Oswald continues, keeping his voice low and menacing. He's in no mood for these silly games. "And he paid the price for it. Now, here you are, another embarrassingly obvious attempt at subterfuge, so it seems that I have a second message to send to those who would undermine me."

He puts on a thoughtful expression. The stranger has the decency to seem alarmed. 

"Perhaps I should cut out your tongue," Oswald muses. "Send it back in a bag. Pulling fingernails is a classic, but alas, its results are not permanent. I suppose there's nothing to prevent me from simply killing you, and dumping your mutilated body in the river."

"Oh my," says the man. "That's an awfully graphic escalation. I assure you, I'm not a spy. I don't even know who you are. I'm sorry, I just- I just thought-" 

"I will not tell you again," Oswald interrupts, his tone leaving no room for argument. "Go away, or I will make you regret it."

Oswald turns away. Truth be told, he would much rather spend the rest of his evening wallowing in self-pity than disposing of yet another body. As much as he enjoys indulging his more sadistic tendencies, he's had his fill for one day. 

The man doesn't leave, but he does go back to minding his own business, which is good enough. Oswald is content to ignore him, as long as he isn't being disturbed. He's not stupid enough to let his guard down completely, however. 

And the more he thinks about it, as he nurses his drink, the more he wonders if perhaps it would be unwise to simply let this man walk away. He's a touch jittery, coming across as a bit of a bumbling nerd, but the possibility that he really is a spy of some sort is still very much on the table. And yes, Oswald might be somewhat buzzed from the alcohol in his system, but surely that makes it even more important that he proves he's not to be trifled with?

He's contemplating the pros and cons of killing him anyway, despite the inconvenience, when the man speaks to him again. 

"I'm alone, too," he says. "I thought I'd found my soulmate, but it turns out that she… isn't. I was so  _ sure _ ."

He pauses. Oswald isn't sure whether he expects a response, but he doesn't even indicate that he's listening. He doesn't want to give the impression that he's happy to be talked at. 

Unfortunately, he can't deny that the mention of soul mates has piqued his interest. His blackened heart has an insatiable appetite for those stories. 

"She's always been kind to me," he continues. "I'm well aware that most people merely tolerate me, so it felt like we had a special connection. She's different to everybody else. Beautiful and smart. So today, when I finally mustered the courage to touch her, I thought… I thought I would feel…" 

He trails off. Oswald turns back to face him, giving up his pretense of ignorance. There's a sense of pain in the man's expression now, a flicker of something dark that Oswald recognises with an achingly intimate familiarity. A deep-seated and ingrained anguish, growing as a result of never quite fitting in. 

Spy or not, Oswald sympathises. 

The man's grip around his glass tightens. "But there was  _ nothing!  _ No tingling, no mark, just disappointment." He meets Oswald's gaze, and he looks sad and resigned. His smile isn't real. "What's it like? Having a soul mate, I mean."

Oswald isn't sure why he suddenly feels compelled to share. Probably the alcohol. "You're asking the wrong person, friend."

The man's eyes widen slightly. "Wait, you haven't…?" 

He doesn't need to finish his question. Oswald looks back at the bar, awkwardness colouring his cheeks. "I'm starting to think it will never happen."

There's a moment of quiet understanding between them, and Oswald is already rethinking his stance on killing the man. Despite himself, he relates. He knows, only too well, the feeling of being fucked around by the universe, of being denied that soulmate connection that most people find with very little trouble. 

"Perhaps men like you and I need to be alone," the man says. 

Oswald eyes him, wary. It would not be wise to trust him, but the more he speaks, the more Oswald feels drawn to him. This is a man like himself. Even if Oswald does end up having to kill him later, just for now, it might be nice to converse with someone who knows what it's like to muddle through life without finding a worthwhile connection. 

Eventually, he extends his hand. "I'm Oswald."

This time, the man's smile is wide and genuine. "Edward." He takes Oswald's hand in a strong grip. 

And it happens. 

Oswald holds his breath in shock, because he feels it immediately. A pins-and-needles sensation throughout his entire body, not uncomfortable but warm and pleasant. He's full with it, his skin burning where he keeps his hold tight on Edward's hand. His heart beats wildly in his chest, and he starts shaking. His nervous system is completely overwhelmed, unsure how to handle the input, the almighty high that always comes before the most terrible crash, except the crash never happens. He's gaping, he knows, but he can't help it, he didn't expect  _ this _ , he never expected-

Then there it is, on the left side of his chest, a much stronger concentration of those tingles. So strong, in fact, that it almost stings. And Oswald can feel tears welling up in his eyes, damn his ridiculous emotions, but he can't help it. 

Edward is looking at him like he's grown a third arm, still holding his hand, and Oswald absolutely cannot handle it.

"I- I have to- excuse me," he stammers, wrenching his hand free and practically running to the bathroom. 

Thankfully, the room is empty, and Oswald leans heavily on one of the sinks, taking a few deep breaths in an attempt to compose himself. He looks up at his own reflection in the mirror, but he looks the same as he always does. He's not sure what he was expecting himself to look like. 

Then his hands are scrambling to remove his tie, fingers trembling as he unbuttons his shirt. Is he ready? It's hard to say. If that was what he thinks it was, and he sees it right there over his heart, he's not sure what he'll do. On the other hand, what if it was all in his imagination? If there's nothing there, after getting his hopes up like this…  _ someone _ is going to suffer. 

Like ripping off a band-aid, he pulls the fabric to the side, and lets out a shaky exhale. 

"Holy crap," is his breathless exclamation. 

He stares at the new mark adorning his chest. It sits there, around the size of his thumb, unassuming and just like an old burn. It's not like the roundish blotch his mother has; it's more of a swirl, with a tiny area of vacant, normal skin in the middle. 

He touches his fingers to it, gently, as if it might disappear if he presses too hard. It doesn't, of course. Soul marks are there for life, once they have appeared. He's not sure whether he expects it to hurt, but it isn't painful at all when he traces the shape with his fingertips. The skin texture is marginally rougher than everywhere else. Not much different to any other scar, and he's certainly got plenty of those. 

He can't stop looking at it. His thoughts seem to be simultaneously racing and at a standstill. All his life, he's wanted this, and now he's panicking and he doesn't know what he's supposed to do. 

Edward. Edward is his soulmate. Odd, chatty, possibly-a-spy Edward, who he only just met and doesn't particularly like. How is he meant to deal with this? 

_ Not alone.  _

He hurriedly redresses himself, and Edward's eyes are on him like a hawk as soon as he returns to the bar. He sits back down, doing his best not to squirm under the intensity of Edward's gaze, and clears his throat. 

"So…" he says, but the rest of the words won't come. They stick to his tongue, feeling too clumsy or too clinical or too blunt. 

Edward comes to his rescue. "Did you feel that too?" he asks, and he sounds small and unsure, like he doesn't want to get his hopes up. Oswald can hardly blame him. 

"I am in no way prepared for this," is all he manages to say. 

"Nor am I," Edward laughs, with a hint of hysteria. "I must admit, I never expected my soulmate to be a man."

Oswald bristles at that, unable to keep a defensive ire out of his tone. "Is that a problem?" 

How hideously unfair, and absolutely typical of his luck. His soulmate didn't imagine a man. Very probably hoped for a woman, by that logic. They've only just met, and he's already about to break Oswald's heart. 

The urge to stab someone, violently and repeatedly, rears its ugly head. 

"No, not at all!" Edward hastens to correct him. "It's just… I've never… This is a very new experience for me. I'm not sure if there's a protocol."

"Well, I'm hardly an expert!" Oswald snaps, and the two of them lapse into a few moments of uncomfortable silence. To fill the space, Oswald drains the remainder of his whiskey, and notices in his peripheral vision that Edward does the same with his cocktail. 

How easy it is now to look at him in an entirely new light. Knowing that they could be on the verge of creating something great together, Oswald almost automatically looks past all of the small annoyances. Instead, he sees a quiet and classic beauty. He sees elegance in the way he moves his fingers, and his nervous responses are endearing rather than irritating. 

How foolish he is, making the same mistakes over and over again. 

_ No,  _ he tells himself.  _ This is different. A soulmate is different to any other loser in the world.  _

Edward turns to him fully, seemingly bracing himself. "Do you want to go somewhere and… talk?" 

"Talk?" Oswald repeats, dubious, and Edward nods while he pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose where they've started to slip down. 

"My car is just around the corner. We can go anywhere."

So they end up back at Edward's apartment. 

It seemed a sensible idea at the time - relatively nearby, affording privacy, and without any time constraints. They had managed a stilted conversation during the drive, but Edward became increasingly antsy, and by the time they pull up to park he's practically bouncing in his seat. 

And now that they're here, waiting to go inside while Edward fumbles to find the right key and mutters to himself about needing better entryway lighting, Oswald realises that this is rather a bold move they're making. He feels like he's been picked up, like a common hooker, and that this is simply the beginning of a casual dalliance before he's sent on his merry way. 

He unconsciously brushes his fingers across where his new soulmark is, attempting to banish such cynicism from his mind. 

Finally, Edward gets the door unlocked, and they proceed inside the apartment. 

It's not what Oswald expects it to be at all, although he's not entirely sure what he  _ did _ expect. Cleanliness and order, he supposes, based on the first impression that Edward has given him. Neutral colours, minimal decor, very plain and bland. Edward doesn't seem the type to be especially invested in the aesthetic of his home. 

To be honest, that's still the impression that Oswald is getting, but in a very different way. The place is an explosion of clutter and colours. Everything seems completely haphazard; papers strewn about the place, miscellaneous objects covering every available surface, no apparent rhyme or reason to any decision that's been made. The only consistency is that nothing looks new. Absolutely everything has age to it, or wear and tear from use. 

Oswald does his best not to look critical. His own living situation is hardly luxurious, so he's not really in any position to be judgemental. 

His face apparently still betrays his lack of approval, because Edward is quick to launch into an explanation. 

"I'm sorry it's such a mess in here," he says as he picks up armfuls of stuff, attempting to rearrange the clutter into something that looks more managed. "I wish I could say that it's not normally like this, but I tend to get very focused on various projects and I never want to disengage just to tidy up. That, and I'm at work a lot of the time, and I rarely have company, so my home environment isn't much of a priority for me. I mean, if I'd known that I would have company then of course I would have made an effort to make the place presentable, but this was all very impulsive, and spur of the moment, and-"

"Edward," Oswald cuts him off. "It's not a problem." 

"Oh. That's good, then. Can I get you anything? I have coffee, or I might have some wine somewhere-" 

"No, thank you," Oswald says, holding up a hand before he has the chance to get carried away again. He sits himself on the couch, waiting until Edward gets the hint to come and sit beside him, and then he steels himself. No use in fumfering, after all. He's waited long enough. 

"Could you… show me? Your… you know." He gestures to his own chest, so that Edward will get his meaning, and he does albeit after several moments of looking confused. 

"Oh! Of course," Edward responds, shrugging off his jacket and pulling his tie loose. "I haven't even looked at it myself, yet. I felt it through my shirt, while you were gone, just to be sure it was actually there. I guess we'll get to see it together."

His smile is so soft as he unbuttons his shirt, and when he opens it to reveal his mark, Oswald leans in for a closer look without even thinking about it. 

Edward's mark isn't the same as his. That's the first thing he notices, although he already knew that two people having identical marks is virtually unheard of. Whereas his is a swirl, Edward's is more like an arch or a semicircle. He reaches his fingers up to touch it, just as he did with his own, and there's something very satisfying in the knowledge that although they don't look the same, their marks do share the same sort of texture. 

He notices the jump of Edward's ribs as his fingertips brush against the skin, and he hears the hitch in his breath. He expects that Edward will retreat - after all, its a reasonable assumption after their conversation that Edward has never been touched by a man before - but he stays exactly where he is, allowing Oswald to examine the mark as thoroughly as he wants to. 

It feels… special. It feels right. 

Oswald is snapped out of his trance-like state when Edward gently clears his throat, and when he looks up at Edward's face, he's stunned by the wonder he finds there. He's not sure that anyone has ever looked at him like that before. 

"Show me yours?" Edward asks him, and Oswald finds himself keen to comply. 

He strips his upper body quickly and efficiently, electing to remove his shirt altogether. Edward doesn't seem to mind. His attention is immediately riveted to Oswald's mark, one hand on his glasses to keep them in place as he too leans forward to get a better look. Oswald wants to squirm under the scrutiny, and can't disguise a small gasp when Edward mirrors his own actions and reaches up to graze his fingers over the skin. It sends a shiver down Oswald's spine, reminiscent of the sensation when Edward had first taken his hand. 

He wonders whether he will get this feeling every time he ever touches Edward, or whether it will fade as time goes on. 

He wants to find out. 

But, for now, he allows Edward to take his time, and apparently that involves having rather a lot of patience because Edward wasn't kidding when he said that his focus can be intense. It feels like hours being under examination, trying to still his wild heart while Edward touches him, torturously gentle and thorough. He can't hide the flush that starts on his face and spreads downwards along his neck, blooming across his collarbones. Goosebumps prickle his skin, tiny hairs standing on end. From the chill in the apartment or the proximity of his soulmate, Oswald isn't sure. 

His soulmate. The very word makes him giddy. He imagines that the novelty of it will endure for days. It's as if he's been sucked into a fever dream, and even though he knows almost nothing about Edward, he doesn't want to leave. 

What a surprising turn of events! He can only hope that Edward feels the same way. 

"Incredible," Edward whispers, barely above a breath. His fingers linger as he looks up, into Oswald's eyes, and it strikes Oswald that he truly is beautiful. How had he so cavalierly dismissed this man after his first glance at the bar? Needless to say, he's glad now that Edward persevered in his attempts at conversation. Whatever his original intentions had been, they no longer matter. Soulmarks don't lie. 

He's drawn in, magnetised, powerless to stop it. Edward's lips are slightly parted, and he's leaning in too. Oswald knows where this is going. He's no fool. Slowly, slowly, until there's a mere hair's breadth between them, and Oswald can taste Edward's air, can feel a stray strand of Edward's hair tickle his cheek. 

There they remain for an agonising eternity, neither quite able to summon the courage to take that final step. Then Edward speaks again, his voice low and his tone almost pleading. 

"Let me…" 

A whine escapes Oswald, and he closes the last of the distance between them. He clenches his eyes shut as a tide of emotion threatens to overcome him, though the kiss is a soft and chaste one. It's impossible for him to describe just how  _ right _ this is. It's as though he's found, in Edward, a perfect fit to fill a void within himself that he hadn't even fully realised was there. He may end up crying tonight. 

Edward is so warm against him, slotting effortlessly into place, pressing for nothing more than this wonderful kiss they're sharing. He's making Oswald's body sing. 

When they come apart, Edward speaks again. "Oswald… Are you real?" 

The question takes him aback for a moment, and it occurs to him that Edward may need more reassurance about this than he'd realised at first. So, he throws caution to the wind, and presses another gentle kiss to Edward's lips. This time, he lets his hand drift upwards, curling his fingers around the back of Edward's head to keep him in place, and it's only a moment before Edward does the same to him. They begin to grow more confident together. Oswald sucks Edward's bottom lip into his mouth, and the sound that comes out of Edward in response is absolutely delectable. 

His free hand trails down Edward's neck, stopping at his shoulder, but teasing at the open fabric of his shirt. When Edward opens his mouth in a short gasp, Oswald takes advantage of the opportunity to slip his tongue inside. He doesn't rush, and Edward just allows himself to be taken apart. What a lovely display of submission. Oswald makes the decision that he wants to know every inch of Edward, and he starts inside his mouth, running the tip of his tongue along those sharp teeth, his hard palate, and then, when Edward seems to want to return the favour, he sucks on his tongue. 

Edward is quivering under his hands by the time he releases him, drawing sharp breaths through his nose. 

"Did that feel real to you?" Oswald asks him, half rhetorical, because already he cannot imagine anything else feeling quite this amazing. 

Then, when Edward looks at him again, something palpable shifts in the atmosphere between them. There's something dark and needy and urgent, something heavy, something clouding all his better judgement, and he knows without asking or saying a word that Edward can feel it too. 

From there, it's a mutually frantic scramble. Trying to kiss, trying to devour each other, while trying to undress. It's hasty and rushed, but they're soulmates, and that's enough to crush any of Oswald's lingering doubts. He gives in to Edward's pull, ripping the shirt from his shoulders. Edward has a head start, and his own hands are instantly lower, one fumbling inexpertly with Oswald's belt while the other rakes in seemingly random patterns over every inch of exposed flesh he can find. It keeps returning to Oswald's soulmark, as if to remind Edward that it's still there. 

Somehow, they realise that the small couch is no place to continue this, and they make it, stumbling and attached, to Edward's bed. Edward falls onto his back, kicking off his shoes as he shuffles backwards, and Oswald is instantly crawling atop him, eager to be kissing him again. 

The lust painted across Edward's face is particularly gratifying, and it's astounding how safe it feels to be draped across him, to be looked at like he means something. Edward wraps his arms around his torso, fingernails digging lightly into his back, as he pulls Oswald down fully, and sparks burn where their bare skin touches. 

Oswald dives back into Edward's mouth. He's quickly becoming addicted to the taste of him, and judging by the way Edward reciprocates his attention, he's no less keen. He moans embarrassingly loudly as Edward snags his tongue between his teeth, using that grip to draw him ever deeper, anchoring him with a firm grip at the back of his neck. 

It seems that Edward has some fight and some fire in him. 

_ Perfect _ . 

With an animalistic snarl, Oswald tears his mouth away, sitting up on Edward's hips in order to work at ridding him of the rest of his clothing. Edward takes advantage of the reprieve to do the same thing, actually managing to get Oswald's belt undone this time. It feels like a race, one which Oswald does not intend to lose, but he still cooperates when Edward gets his pants down his thighs, lifting one knee at a time so that he can shimmy them the rest of the way off. It leaves Oswald in nothing but his underwear, although he doesn't leave Edward with the same modesty, electing to yank both his pants and his underwear down at the same time, sliding back to give himself room to remove them completely. 

When that's done, he allows himself to take in the vision of Edward's nude form, right there waiting for him. Edward has pushed himself up onto his elbows so that he can see Oswald too. He's a dream, with his soulmark stark against his skin and his hard cock between his legs leaving Oswald in no doubt about whether he's really sure about this. 

He can only hope that Edward is thinking something similar about him. 

"Get back up here," Edward rumbles, making Oswald's own cock throb with anticipation, and he hurries to comply. Except he only makes it halfway up Edward's body, finding himself incapable of simply bypassing the erection that his soulmate has  _ because of him _ , and choosing instead to take as much of it into his mouth as he can with absolutely no warning or preamble. 

Edward howls, his head dropping back as his hands fist in the sheets, and pride swells within Oswald's spirit. He's only ever given a handful of blowjobs in his life, so he's certainly no pro, but if Edward is as sensitive as he appears to be, then hopefully he will also enjoy the few techniques Oswald has stashed in his repertoire. 

He starts slowly, gliding his mouth up and down the length of Edward, using one hand at the base to keep him steady. He can see the muscles trembling already in Edward's abdomen from his vantage point. Then he starts to apply a little suction, establishing a rhythm that soon has Edward making tiny, aborted thrusts with his hips.

"Oswald," he breathes, and it sounds like a prayer. 

Oswald moans around his mouthful of cock. He swirls his tongue as he continues to move his head, paying extra attention to the head, and occasionally allowing his teeth to scrape lightly along the underside on the way up. 

He wants to make Edward come, and he works towards it with a single-minded focus. There's something heady about having the ability to make a man fall apart, and although Oswald doesn't like to admit it, he absolutely thrives on the feeling. 

Too soon, though, Edward grabs a fistful of his hair and forcefully pulls him off. A strand of saliva clings between his lips and Edward's cock, filthy and obscene. 

Then Edward is pulling him up and up, until they're face to face, and his expression is hungry. "I said  _ come here,"  _ he growls, before crushing their lips together. It's utterly without finesse, but so full of passion and desire that it makes Oswald's head swim. He shucks his underwear while they kiss, both now completely naked, and lowers his body until as much of him is pressed against Edward as possible. 

It's too much for either of them to maintain the kiss, both breaking away to gasp at the sensation of skin against skin, so much and yet still not enough. Edward ruts up against Oswald, his brows knitting together as he tightens his grip around Oswald's body. 

"Please," he groans, his voice gravelly and wrecked. "Oswald, please…" 

"I've got you," Oswald tells him, reaching between them to take both of their cocks together in one hand. It's a stretch, but he can just about get a grip. "Oh, Edward, I've got you."

The feeling, as he works them together, is exquisite and wonderful. He knows he won't last long - his heart is too full to even think about something as irrelevant as stamina, and he can already feel the telltale coil of tension deep in his gut - but he desperately wants to get Edward there first. He wants to see what his face looks like when he's at the peak of physical pleasure. 

One of Edward's hands slithers between them, wrapping adjacent to Oswald's, securing his grip and helping him to stroke them both faster.

"Let me see you," Oswald begs, between breathless gasps. Edward is tensing beneath him, he can feel it. "I need to see you, please!" 

Edward arches against him, his mouth open in a silent scream. His release spills over their joined hands as his body shakes through the high, until finally he slumps, limp and boneless, back against the mattress. The blissed-out look on his face is enough for Oswald to follow him right over the edge, his brain whiting out for a few moments as his orgasm pulses through him. When he eventually collapses on top of Edward, he can't bring himself to care about the mess they've made. 

As his breathing calms, he's soothed by the beating of Edward's heart against him. It's with an exhausted groan that he flops to one side, allowing Edward a modicum of breathing space, but he stays close. And just as he's thinking about finding something to clean them off, Edward's hand latches onto his own. 

"Stay," is his worn out request. Oswald settles back and obliges. 

\--

When he next opens his eyes, for a moment Oswald is disorientated. He's in an unfamiliar room, in a bed that isn't his own, naked and sticky and warm. He wrinkles his nose, and then he remembers. 

He touches his soulmark, just to make sure it was real. And when he turns his head, he finds his nose buried in soft hair. Edward is sound asleep beside him, his glasses having been discarded on the bedside table. He's snoring gently, the side of his face pressed into the pillow and one arm slung across Oswald's waist. His soulmark is there, proud and permanent, on his chest. 

Oswald smiles. Chuckles to himself, still unable to quite believe this has happened to him. He tightens his own grip on Edward, and drifts back into a doze. 

\--

The next time he wakes up, he checks his phone. He has seventeen unread texts and thirty-eight missed calls, all from his mother. Oops. Still, hopefully she'll be quick to forgive him when she finds out why he didn't come home. 


End file.
